


Flight

by TheWillowBends



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Gen, short fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-24
Updated: 2018-09-24
Packaged: 2019-07-16 14:46:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16088273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWillowBends/pseuds/TheWillowBends
Summary: A queen can be many girls behind a painted face.





	Flight

The day of her coronation, she is dressed in vine silk and plumage, an exotic bird among the throng of attendants, administrators, and bureaucrats that compose the heart of Naboo’s political seat. She is silent, though she knows they will expect her to speak, and she is afraid, though her hands do not shake. In the riot of sound, Padmè feels small and indistinct; she is neither the first nor the youngest girl queen, but in the measure of her youth, she feels equally lacking.

It is Rabè who rescues her from the maw, clasping her hand and ushering her away to a back room where the other handmaidens await her. Sabè looks at her, a stranger in her panoply, and Padmè wonders if she is thinking of Varykino, of summer and scraped knees and laughter. They were small once; she wonders if they are small still.

Eirtaè is not so impressed, her eyes cutting as they take the whole of her, hem to crown. She presses her lips into a fine line, voice curt. “Time is short. Let’s get her readied.”

With little fuss, they press her into high backed chairs, smoothing the folds of her dress and unwinding the natural curl of her hair, pulling it into a style more elegant and severe. Brush in hand, Eirtaè smooths away blemish and character, and Amidala emerges, piece by piece, in painted flesh and taut features. A touch a rouge on her lips, and the portrait emerges complete. It must takes hours, yet her heart pounds under her breast - too soon - when they look up from their work, complete.

Sabè’s hands are on her shoulders, smoothing the lines of her dress down, and perhaps, Amidala thinks, steadying her, a mother bird readying her fledgling for flight. Rabè’s breath tickles, mischievous, when she whispers in her ear, “Now, you look like a queen.”

She breathes in once, holding it, savoring these last few moments of girlhood in her breast. She lets it out carefully and stands.

In the mirror, they make quite a sight, the lot of them: a seamless blend of sleek features and sharp eyes, draped in red cloth and reverence. Even Eirtaè is softened in the ambient light, her eyes grown liquid and soft. Her mouth is kind now, and their hands are clasped.

“Your people await, your Highness.”

They move as they always have, queen and handmaiden and girl and maid all and again together. Strands of a thread, wound tightly into one.


End file.
